


Assorted BBC Sherlock AskBox Fics

by Aenonnymoose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Askbox Fic, Cake, F/M, Gen, Heterosexuality, Homosexuality, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Non-Graphic Violence, Occasionally Excessive Profanity, POV Multiple, Sexual Content, Slash, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenonnymoose/pseuds/Aenonnymoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are various askbox fics based on BBC Sherlock, written on <a href="http://aenonnymoose.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. AskBox Ficlet: BBC Sherlock - SH/JW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

Sherlock and John are back from a case. They're bloodied, bruised, and laughing like fucking idiots. They're bloody heroes and it doesn't matter if anyone else knows it. Sherlock catches John's eye, grins that grin - they both know what it means - and John takes two steps, reaches out, grabs a handful of that fucking sexy coat, and drags Sherlock down into a kiss. Not a hard, bruising kiss, no, they did all that earlier. This is tender and sweet; what a hero really deserves. A welcome.

~MF-Anon


	2. AskBox Ficlet: BBC Sherlock - SH&JW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

Some nights feature John panting and screaming with his lips clamped shut because his sleeping mind has drug his arse back to an all-night Afghani horror show featuring all his friends in pieces; and there's him with a single needle and no thread. Sherlock hears, but doesn't go up to his friend. 15 minutes later, he's shouting up the stairs that he needs John's help at once. Turns out he needs help eating some ice cream. Yes, it's for a case, John! Chocolate or Cherry? Shut up and eat!

~MF-Anon


	3. AskBox Ficlet: BBC Sherlock - SH/JW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

How come no one ever fucking talks about all the times they've heard some crazy motherfuckers having it off in the gents at NSY? I mean, how hard is it to figure out which sexy-voiced fuck would be moaning 'Yes, John, oh, yes!' in rhythm with the sound of two full-grown bodies banging up against the metal partition? Seriously? No fucking wonder they're keeping on someone like Anderson, if that's the level of their bloody 'detecting' up in there! Motherfuckers should put in a CCTV. 

~MF-Anon


	4. AskBox Ficlet: BBC Sherlock - JM/SM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

Did Seb ever tell you about the time he was taking out that Russian mobster’s competition and Jim, the fucking nutjob, shows up and starts unfastening his bloody trousers while Seb’s lining up the shot? I mean, what the sodding fuck? So, Seb’s waiting for some motorcade parade to pass, it’s fucking snowing, and there’s motherfucking Jim kneeling down and hauling out Seb’s cock for a visit with mr and mrs tonsils. What? Oh, fuck, yes, Seb made the shot. Moneyshot, too, for that matter.

~MF-Anon


	5. AskBox Ficlet: BBC Sherlock - MH/Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

C’mere. No, shut the fuck up and look there. It’s Mycroft sneaking into the kitchen in fucking black silk pjs, barefoot; the sometime British Motherfucking Government digging in the fridge. Of course, he’s after the cake. The chocolate cake! The look on his face? That’s not just hunger, that’s fucking lust. Lovingly cutting a slice–china plate, natch–neatly putting the rest back. That face he makes when he licks his finger, that’s almost sex. Bets he’ll have wood by the second bite?

~MF-Anon


	6. AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock - SH&JW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

Dr. John Hamish Watson is not a stupid man or a cowardly man. He is a fucking doctor. He has been in the fucking military – where he was shot, thank you very fucking much. He lived with Sherlock has-admitted-to-no-middle-name Holmes for long enough to recognise the man, in a posh suit, in lazy lounge wear, in costume, or in nothing but a fucking sheet, thank you very bloody much. 

So, when a tall man in a not-quite pulled forward enough dark hoodie bumps into John, murmuring a hoarse baritone ‘Pardon’ before turning quickly away, it takes John maybe thirty seconds to process that he’s seen ginger curls and the kind of cheekbones that could cut glass just barely showing from within that hoodie. However, the moment the penny drops, before that tall figure’s lost in the crowd, a desperately determined John Watson goes charging after him. John’s unable to stop the words ‘Sherlock? Sherlock! Fucking Sherlock!’ zipping through his head frantically.

It’s not even a full minute later that John grabs a long, lean arm and spins the man to face him. Familiar eyes wide, those fucking bow lips parted on a startled gasp; it’s a sunburnt, thinner Sherlock, quite alive, staring back at him. John knew it was Sherlock, but seeing him is still a shock, right down to his core. Sherlock. Really alive. Not dead. He doesn’t even realise he’s said that aloud till he hears it in his own ears; also hears the really-alive-Sherlock swallow hard.

“John…” Sherlock says as if HE’S the one seeing a fucking ghost, running out of words after only one.

John shakes his head, fists balled up, heart racing, gut tight, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to shout or beat the sodding bastard to a pulp. He grits out a low, growling, “Three fucking years, Sherlock,” and his own voice fails him.

“I know,” whispers Sherlock, still sounding rough-throated. “I’m… I had to, John,” he adds after a million-year-long second. “But it’s almost over.”

“What’s almost over?” demands John, shaking with rage, borderline shock and something else he can’t name – mostly because he’s afraid to, and doesn’t have time to be afraid, damn it! Busy talking to a dead man, d’you mind, emotions?

“I can’t explain yet,” Sherlock answers, keeping to that hoarse whisper, standing in John’s personal space as easily as if he’s never left it. “I promise there IS an explanation.” He starts to turn away, glancing around nervously, as if worried. About what?

Sherlock’s in motion when John grabs the front of his hoodie – a fucking hoodie? Unbelievable! – and holds on, tugging the too-loose garment down and aside. Remember, John’s a doctor. He sees the mottled bruising revealed by the shift of fabric away from Sherlock’s throat. Hoarse voice explained; John’s eyes widen. “What—?” he starts to demand.

Sherlock shakes his head vehemently, ginger fringe nearly covering one indescribable eye. “Too dangerous, John. I’ll explain when it’s safe.”

“What happened?” This time, John’s voice brooks no argument.

Sherlock looks genuinely pained for a long moment, then whispers, “Fuck!” and grabs John’s arm.

Not hesitating an instant, John lets himself be pulled into a pub across the way, listening as Sherlock talks of assassins, Moriarty’s network, of having to seem to die so those he cares about could go on living. In a back booth, he tells John the mechanics of his ‘magic trick’ and how Molly was the only one who knew the truth. Sherlock concludes by explaining his bruised throat; it is only this morning that John’s shadow – one he never knew about – was dealt with.

For a few minutes, John looks stonily at the scarred tabletop, barely breathing past the anger and betrayal – and something more. Long, graceful fingers tentatively come to rest atop one clenched fist.

“John, it was play dead or see you dead. I had no choice.” There’s implacable logic in his tone, but John finally hears the real explanation beneath. “One more task,” Sherlock says as the worst of John’s lingering anger fades. “Then I can come back for good.” Indecision colours Sherlock’s expression. John waits – he’s got pretty damn good at it – till Sherlock leans forward, saying, “Telling you it’s dangerous is pointless. Will you come with me tonight, John?”

A crooked grin slowly curves John’s lips. Opening his fist, John turns his hand up under Sherlock’s, twining their fingers. “When you like and where you like.” 

END 

~MF-Anon


	7. AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock - SH/JW&GL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

1- John hasn’t been at the pub with Greg more than 20 minutes when he gets a text. With an annoyed sigh, he checks the message. For just a second, he has a hint of a smirk – Greg’s seen that look on other guys, when their girlfriends or boyfriends talk about either recent sex, or impending sex – but John immediately rolls his eyes and huffs as if annoyed. “Got to go,” he says long-sufferingly. “How ‘bout I stand you another pint to make up for it?” “What is it now?” Greg demands.

2- Neither of them have to verbalise who the text’s from, they both know. John waves a hand and shakes his head as he goes to the bar to get Greg’s consolation pint. Contrary to Sherlock’s complaints, Greg’s not stupid, he casually spins John’s mobile and quickly checks the last text: {Jag needs attention} Greg quickly puts the mobile like he found it. Jag? They have a Jag? John can’t even bleeding drive. John comes back, deposits a pint of a better brand than Greg was buying for himself.

3- With a sighed apology, scooping up his phone, John leaves. AN HOUR LATER: Sherlock is draped over John, both of them sweaty and flushed; a rumbling hum that’s contentment and pleasure and approval comes from deep in Sherlock’s throat. It could almost be the purr of a great cat, and as his fingers are carding through wildly-tousled dark curls, John’s wearing a smugger than smug grin. “Alright, fine, I admit I rather like it,” Sherlock admits in a lazy voice. John’s grin only widens.

~MF-Anon


	8. AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock - MH/GL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

Life, being the ball-busting bitch that it is – and it’s not about fucking gender, this isn’t the ‘female dog’ sort of bitch, this is the other meaning – sometimes seems to go above and beyond the call. Like when two people have only been in a probably-serious relationship for barely four months and one of them has to go to three, count ‘em, THREE different countries within the span of a month. That’s just fucking wrong, okay? 

Sure, they’ve got phones, there’s video conferencing, but that doesn’t substitute for the touch of skin on skin, the smell of that particular curve of a certain person’s neck, or the sudden twitching thrust of another person’s hips when things really start GETting to him. Just no. But they’re both grown-ups, practical, and one of them’s a motherfucking genius, so you know everything that COULD be done was being done to orchestrate a meet up that lasted more than fifteen minutes.  
But, hell no! Life was cock-blocking like a boss.

Another month was half over before the situation resolved; a certain power-hungry someone had their luxury yacht sink off the coast of South America, two other slightly more sensible someones decided maybe some peace talks would be nice, sure. Treaties were renegotiated, border tensions eased, and the one responsible was finishing his final instructions for a team of people who didn’t technically exist as he boarded his chartered plane.

Lestrade was used to being wakened at all hours; it was a part of the job. Still, when his mobile woke him at 3:42am, he didn’t have to be HAPPY about it. “Lestrade!”

A soft chuckle he knew well took some of the disgruntlement out of him. “I’m sorry to wake you, Gregory, but this is important.”

A little chill of worry moved through Lestrade as he shoved the covers aside to sit up more fully. “What is it, My?”

“A car will be there within the next eight minutes. Be dressed, please.”

“Fine, what’s up?” Lestrade asked, hurriedly grabbing trousers and a shirt.

“My dear Gregory, I’m now on my way home from the airport. We WILL be together before another 20 minutes passes!” Mycroft replied in a low, firm voice that did interesting things to Greg’s insides.

“Okaayy,” he replied leadingly as he put on one shoe, “and then?”

Mycroft hissed a soft curse, something he almost never did – and all but growled, “Then I shall quite thoroughly fuck you over the divan in my study!” Lestrade’s mouth went dry and a healthy percentage of his blood found urgent business below his belt-line.

It took three tries to answer, and his voice was rougher than usual with reaction. “That… yeah… that’s, uh… very good… for a start.”

Keys and wallet in pockets, jacket in hand, he heard a knock at the door as Mycroft’s warm laughter came down the line. “Oh, but I do adore you, Gregory. See you soon.”

Lestrade made it there in 16 minutes, and ended up staying the weekend.

END

~MF-Anon


	9. AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock - GL&SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

Lestrade hears the noises in his kitchen, knows his wife is out of town, and so is carrying his favourite uninvited guest welcoming tool – a cricket bat – when he sneaks to the doorway. The tall, dark haired maniac currently drinking his milk out of the sodding carton is immediately recognisable. “What did I tell you about picking the bloody locks?” Lestrade demands.

Sherlock – because it is, fucking Sherlock Holmes – doesn’t jump or seem the slightest bit surprised when he turns, looking disinterested, deathly pale, and sporting a black eye. “I can’t be bothered to remember, was it important?”

For a minute Lestrade just wants to black the younger man’s other eye, but he doesn’t. He’s supposed to be one of the bloody ‘good guys’ after all. But Sherlock makes it hard to remember that sometimes. “What happened to you?” he asks instead.

“Cut myself shaving,” snarks Sherlock, putting the milk down on the counter. Empty.

“You look like crap,” Lestrade tells him sincerely.

“How appropriate,” Sherlock replies, opening one of his cupboards. Sherlock takes down a package of digestives. “Someone decided they would like to have my money and I decided I’d rather keep it.”

Sighing, dropping the cricket bat on the kitchen table, Lestrade gives him a ‘not buying the bullshit’ look. “You’re using again.”

Sherlock snorts derisively. Eating two digestives stacked atop one another in four bites, Sherlock adds rolling his eyes to the snort, though it’s less effective when one eye’s half swollen shut.

“Sherlock, I told you I wasn’t allowing you on my crime scenes if you’re using.”

Sherlock hurls the digestives at the counter as he spins and snarls at Lestrade, “You don’t understand! I NEED to focus. I NEED to slow my brain down so I can THINK PROPERLY!” His voice rises, louder and more frantic with each word. Lestrade can almost feel Sherlock’s desperation.

It’s instinct that has him across the kitchen reaching out. At first Sherlock bats his hands away, startled, almost frightened. Lestrade softens his voice, moves more slowly. “Easy, now. It’s me. You know me. C’mon, Sherlock,” he murmurs.

Close up, Sherlock’s eyes are red-rimmed, bloodshot, and the tension in him is more obvious. “You don’t understand,” he repeats, but this time in a rough, low voice that cracks on the last syllable.

“I know,” Lestrade agrees soothingly, hands laid upon Sherlock’s shoulders, one going up to his hair, ignoring that it needs a wash, ignoring everything but a brilliant soul in pain and need. “But the drugs only make it worse after, Sherlock. You KNOW that.” So slowly, he gently reels Sherlock in until his arms are around that too slender frame, which is trembling so hard it’s a bit alarming. “We’ll figure out something,” he whispers as he guides Sherlock’s head down to his shoulder.

“I need it,” Sherlock whispers.

Lestrade tightens his arms. “We’ll get you sorted, I promise. C’mon.” Arms still about him, Lestrade walks Sherlock slowly out of the kitchen and into the living room. Murmuring promises and reassurances, he ends up sitting on the sofa, Sherlock curled up against him.

Eventually the trembling eases - Sherlock either passes out or falls asleep – and Lestrade checks that his pulse isn’t too wild or slow, that he’s breathing alright, and then just holds on.

END

~MF-Anon


	10. AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock - JM&JW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

Jim came to with a headache, sore neck, and hands tied behind him with his own £200 tie. Standing above him was Sherlock’s jumper-wearing lapdog, John Watson. Only there was some mistake. The jumper was gone, there was a tear in the blue button-down, all three of Jim’s hired thugs were out cold and trussed up elaborately with their own belts and shoelaces, and the look on ‘boring’ Dr. Watson’s face belonged to a very fucking pissed off Captain Watson. “I thought you were a genius, Jim?”

~MF-Anon


	11. AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock - MollyH/SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Noottersontheflightdeck](http://noottersontheflightdeck.tumblr.com)

Molly returned hours after her shift for her mobile, gasping as she rounded the end of the workstation to see Him sitting there, knees drawn up to his chest, not-blue/not-green/not-grey eyes unreadable. A man dead to everyone but Molly six months ago. Hair dyed ginger-gold, skin sunburnt, he scowled at her.

“Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” She whispered.

His lips tightened. “Last minute decision.”

Putting her bag down, she crouched next to him, hand on his knee. “What do you need?”

Sherlock looked at her hand first, then up at her face again, but she didn’t move. She waited. It took him nearly a minute to ask hoarsely, “How is he?”

Looking pained, Molly told him the truth. “Not good, but better than he was.”

Nodding, Sherlock lowered his head, but chose to rest his forehead on the back of her hand. “But he’s alive,” he whispered.

Not thinking, Molly stroked sun-gilded ginger curls with her other hand, wasn’t thrown off, and asked, “How much longer till it’s over?”

He half sighed, half snorted scoffingly. “Months. I can’t return till they’re all dealt with.”

Molly gave a soft, sympathetic sigh, bent to kiss his head very lightly. “Tell me what I can do.”

He was still for a long moment, then, “Take care of him as much as he’ll let you.” Head lifting, eyes red-rimmed but dry, his voice cracked on an added, “Please?”

Nodding, not sure how she would do it, Molly’s voice broke in sympathy, “I will. Promise.”

His other hand lifted, fingers at her cheek. “It’s more difficult than I thought it’d be,” he said.

Molly considered what an understatement that must be; how thoroughly he’d planned, anticipated, how little escaped him. She leaned forward slowly, drawn, offering. He didn’t meet her halfway, but he didn’t pull back, and when her lips touched his she heard a tiny sound in his throat that might’ve been anything. Sherlock’s mouth tasted of recent coffee and not-so-recent cigarettes. His hands were tentative, then bold, but never rough.

He didn’t say a word when she fumbled her purse off the worktop to fetch a condom, but she did see a brief expression of surprise. She didn’t say a word when he came gasping another’s name, but she’d almost expected it. Molly came with tears in her eyes, but wasn’t sure who they were for. Sherlock whispered, “I’m sorry, Molly,” into her hair as they held each other afterwards.

Both dressed again, he kissed her gently, touched her cheek, and she nodded as if he’d spoken again. “I promise.”

END

~MF-Anon


	12. AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock - MollyH&SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This Post On Tumblr](http://mirabilelectu.tumblr.com/post/24246852482/finalproblem-its-like-this-still-is-from-an) led to [Mirabilelectu](http://mirabilelectu.tumblr.com) saying:
>
>> “I would give several years of my life to see Molly turn suddenly sassy and bitch Sherlock out. I don’t think you understand. I need it.”
> 
>   
> As a result, this was left in her askbox.

Molly's having one of those days. Rude people, Toby coughed up a hairball in her comfiest work shoes, and someone's botched the paperwork on the last three bodies brought in. Sherlock wants to see two of them, but she has to make sure which is which before he can. The fifth time he comes back with his fourth coffee, and says something implying she's the one at fault and that _anyone_ with a brain ought to be able to solve the problem, she hears her blood pressure pounding in her ears. 

“That’s enough!” Someone snaps – oh, did that come out of her? – and Sherlock’s head rears back slightly, his dark brows rising. His amazing lips part to let something snide out, she’s sure, so she puts her clipboard on the worktop with a loud ‘snack!’ and doesn’t let him get started. “You can either help me sort this or stand back and let me do it in peace. I’m not stupid, I’m not the one who mucked this up, but I am the one who allows you access at all hours when I don’t have to!" 

Surprised again, Sherlock’s expression shifts through annoyance briefly to concern. “Molly,” he begins, voice quieter, calming. If she hadn’t been looking right at him, she’d’ve missed it. How often has he done this sort of thing? Doesn’t he know…? 

Not wanting to let him talk her ‘round, she puts her index finger in the middle of his chest, cutting him off again. “No. No sweet talking. No games. No more manipulating me. Stop treating me like a... resource and treat me like a _person_!” Sherlock’s brows start to furrow, anger flashing in his pale eyes, and Molly pokes him in his breastbone, finger bending slightly from the pressure. “None of that, either! You don’t get to be angry at me! I’ve been more patient with you than anyone and you deserve it the least!” Taking a deep breath, she has to lower her voice or he’ll know she’s trembling. “Don’t treat me the way you’d hate people to treat you. If you can’t respect me as a person, respect the help I’m giving you.” 

Something in what she says, near the end, seems to click. Molly sees his startled blink and a tiny instant of expression, maybe regret… or not, she’s not sure. Tightening his lips, Sherlock steps back – well, she was poking him pretty hard – and nods. Despite her crush on Sherlock, Molly does see him, his faults as well as his good points. He’s terribly proud, so she doesn’t try to push any further. 

“So, if you want to help, fine. Otherwise, why don’t I text you when it’s sorted?” 

Glancing at the clipboard, Sherlock snorts, but whatever scathing words pop into his mind, he doesn’t say them. Instead he lifts his chin, saying coolly, “Yes, please do,” and swirls out in his usual fashion. 

Molly slumps after a moment, swallows hard, and then covers her mouth as a slightly-hysterical burst of giggles tries to escape. 

Later, after she texts him, Sherlock arrives with two coffees. On his way to the cadaver waiting for him, he leaves one of the coffees at her station. 

END

~Aenonnymoose


	13. AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock - SH/JW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Lady-Karasu](http://lady-karasu.tumblr.com/)

John’s got his and Sherlock’s tea on the table by the time he hears the water shut off in the loo – Sherlock’s ‘morning-or-whenever-the-hell-he-gets-up-after-an-actual-bout-of-sleep’ ablutions are fairly predictable – and puts down two plates of buttered toast, jam added to his own and cinnamon-infused honey for Sherlock, which he’d mentioned liking a few weeks ago. 

Satisfied that Sherlock would likely drink and eat without a fuss after a three-day whirl of a case and sleeping ten hours. John’s smiling as he sits and returns to reading the newspaper. 

Sherlock shuffles out to the smell of toast and tea, having no plans to go anywhere, wearing lounge pants and a t-shirt as a concession to John’s insistence that he at least _pretend_ to have a little modesty; well, that and Mrs. Hudson still has a bad habit of opening the door too soon after a nearly token knock or halloo. John’s reading his paper, smiling a serene ‘all is right with the world’ little smile. This means John’s not read anything annoying yet and is pleased with himself for having the tea and toast ready just in time. Snorting softly, Sherlock stops by the table, taking up his tea and sipping cautiously as he reaches out for a slice of toast. 

The smell hits him first, even as he’s opening his mouth, and he bites into the toast with a sound that’s half surprise, half moan when the first burst of taste swells into being in his mouth. Warm butter and spicy-sweet cinnamon-honey.

John’s caught in the act of picking up his own first piece of toast, looking up at Sherlock with his lips slightly parted, smilingly surprised. The sound Sherlock makes is more than John expected, more like the sounds his lover makes in the bedroom – or on the sofa, or the occasional secluded alley, or… nevermind – and Sherlock chews with an expression of deep pleasure while John watches, rapt. 

“John,” Sherlock says after swallowing, voice lower and richer than his usual morning voice. 

John’s brows go up in query; Sherlock’s tone is arresting, as is his expression as he swallows and immediately takes another small bite. Another soft, throaty moan works its way up that long neck and John’s comfy old denims seem to shrink a little. Licking his lips, Sherlock turns to John and snatches the newspaper out of his unresisting hands. 

“You listened,” he says as if John’s arranged for a quadruple locked-room murder with a note written in some convoluted cipher from the killer.

Smiling, maybe with a bit of a leer, John nods and starts to reply, but halts when Sherlock lifts one long leg and summarily straddles John’s lap, squeezing his lean body between the table and John. 

“Have you tasted it?” he asks – no, he rumbles, nearly purrs – and John nods. 

“Licked my finger when making your toast,” he replies distractedly. 

Sherlock’s already shaking his head, holding the cinnamon-honey and butter covered toast to John’s lips, purring, “Not the same, take a bite.” 

Not averse to trying just about anything Sherlock asks when he uses _that_ voice, John obediently opens his mouth and, when Sherlock slips the edge of the toast between his lips, he takes the bite. There’s the usual crunch of toasted bread, the warm taste of butter, the smooth, rich taste of honey, and the spicy bite of cinnamon; however, the flavours blend and shift into something more as John chews, and it’s really quite delicious. He hums and nods in agreement and enjoyment. 

Sherlock frowns as if John’s doing something strange, and John only then realises that Sherlock’s pupils are dilated, cheeks flushed. He usually looks like this after they’ve kissed and fondled for a few minutes; this just from spiced honey on toast? As this observation enters John’s brain, Sherlock’s clearly having a thought – knowing him, several dozen – and he licks some of the brownish-gold flavoured honey off of the toast and leans down, kissing John with a honey-coated tongue. 

The difference is remarkable. What was delicious is now sumptuously amazing. John’s aware of the soft moan rising up out of him, but it’s irrelevant. 

Sherlock’s deeper moan joins along and he frees John’s mouth to delicately lick his upper lip before saying, “Oh, John, this is even _better_.” Again ‘saying’ should be ‘purring’ or some adjective that means ‘tone that sidles up to the libido and gives it a very friendly fondle’. 

“No complaints here,” John says a little breathily. 

Sherlock remains nestled in John’s lap, who thinks it’s just fine, sharing the rest of his toast bite for bite with John – whose own is forgotten. In between bites, they share long, luscious, honey-flavoured kisses, and the moans seem to grow longer and deeper. 

Being a genius, Sherlock suggests further experiments with the honey. John, again, has no complaints. 

Thereafter, every other shopping list contains the item ‘2 jars cinnamon honey’ – only one of the jars is ever for toast. 

END 

~Moose


	14. Non-AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock - JM/SM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Lady-Karasu](http://lady-karasu.tumblr.com/)

He doesn't believe in gods, demons, anything but the world around him that he can twist and use to his purposes. He believes in what he can do with his mind, with his hands; everything of superstition and myth can be someone else's hang-up, he doesn't need any of that nonsense. Some might say he's mad, twisted, wrong somehow, but they don't say it to his face. Lately they don't even whisper it behind his back, and the heady rush of the knowledge that he is feared and hated, but obeyed, does. not. get. old.

He doesn't believe in the things other people do, but he has found it strangely satisfying to be believed in. To see the light of eager compliance, of willing obedience in the eyes of a killer. Eyes that are flat and cold when turned on everyone else. It’s of particular satisfaction to him that despite all his random little tests, his relentless pushing, his studied cruelties, the world-hardened killer, the insanely-patient shikari has given allegiance to him. Willingly.

So, it's with a pristine conscience that he accepts the unexpected worship that is the startlingly gentle touch of large hands on his bared body. Hands that have killed countless times, that could snap his neck without more than a soft grunt of effort from their owner, and which will release him the instant he wishes. But he doesn't wish it. He takes the offering of that strong, scarred body that he can caress or mark as he pleases, drinks of a hard-lipped mouth that softens only for him. He’s found that the sounds of moans and sighs, of his name whimpered imploringly or choked out unintentionally, all are like music to his ears – as cliché as that may be. 

Deep in the night, when he wakes from dreams of endless nothingness filling him up and erasing him rather than the horrors others profess to fear in their dreams, he whispers into the tanned and scarred skin that’s always so warm when he’s so cold. No one but his own and only believer hears the words, will ever hear them. If he ever loses faith, ever stops believing, best to kill himself than to run; no mercy will be shown. Better still, he says, just kill them both, because that’s the kindest end he can think of on nights like these.

Always, no matter what’s happened, no matter if he bears fresh scars from fingernails and teeth, or wine-dark marks from lips and tongue… always, his sole acolyte, his killer, his never-tamed but obedient tiger, will enfold him in strong arms and whisper in his rough-edged voice, “Never, Jim. Never. I’m yours till you end me.” Each time, the nothingness inside is pushed back, the burden of being is eased, and he can sleep peacefully again; the worshipped genius instead of the abandoned madman.

END

~MF-Anon


	15. Askbox Ficlet: BBC Sherlock - SH/JW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Aznschoolgirlcorner](http://aznschoolgirlcorner.tumblr.com/)

John watched Sherlock play his violin, silhouetted by the afternoon sun, his shadow falling across John’s legs where he sat in his chair. After a time – not that John kept track – Sherlock stopped and turned as if he would say something, but halted with lips parted on whatever it had been. Setting aside his violin and bow hastily, Sherlock crossed the room, speaking John’s name softly instead of his previously-intended words. Bending down, he kissed John just as softly as he’d spoken.

~Aenonny


	16. AskBox Ficlet: BBC Sherlock - GL/MollyH, SH, JW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [sndrewacott](http://sndrewacott.tumblr.com/)

It wasn’t unusual for Molly to be in her office instead of the morgue, ready to assist Sherlock with the corpses. Nor was it unusual to see DI Lestrade at Bart’s; he sometimes came to look at a corpse, just as Sherlock did – not always for the same reasons. However, it was unusual to see Molly sitting on Lestrade’s lap in her office. Sherlock stood in the doorway, blinking, mouth fallen open in genuine surprise. Molly blushed, Lestrade rolled his eyes, and John smothered a giggle. 

~Aenonny


	17. Prompted Fic: BBC Sherlock - MollyH, JW, SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Tygermama](http://tygermama.tumblr.com/) \- Who prompted: _“John finally convinces Molly he’s not mad at her for lying to him about Sherlock anymore.”_

It took a while for things to settle down after Sherlock returned from his faux death; John still refused to speak to Mycroft, but he had gradually been working through his anger and hurt at Molly’s having lied to him. At first, he wouldn’t even speak, shaking his head and holding up a hand to fend her off. On the fourth visit, she brought him tea while he was waiting for Sherlock to finish in the morgue, whispering a soft apology and scurrying away. 

Slowly, John’s grudge was worn down by her sad eyes and woeful expressions, as well as realising that she had only done what had been asked of her, and for reasons he really couldn’t argue. So he began to forgive, speaking to her a little less stiffly and in more than monosyllables. Unfortunately, Molly hadn’t got over her own guilty feelings. She kept her tentative manner, kept apologising, every time she saw him. Even after he told her, more than once, it was okay.

Finally, four months in, John just couldn’t stand it any more. He caught her arm gently and spoke in a firm, but kind voice, “Molly, I’ve managed to get over this, so now you need to let go of it, too. I understand, okay? You were doing the right thing, and you did it for the right reasons, and I would rather have had my feelings hurt and Sherlock alive than the alternative. So, if you truly are sorry and want to make it up to me, accept that I forgive you and… Molly, forgive yourself, yeah? It’s fine now. Promise.” 

Molly burst into tears and all but threw herself upon John. Sherlock, who stood by in neutral silence, not interrupting - which was actually him being supportive of the situation - had, astonishingly, patted her awkwardly on the back as she sobbed muffled thanks and a few more apologies for good measure into John’s shoulder, and John had sort of stood there and let her get it out of her system. 

Things improved after that, but any time John accompanied Sherlock, Molly always offered to fetch _him_ tea or snacks, while Sherlock merely snorted and pretended to be affronted. John noticed Sherlock’s subtle smile, though, and disregarded his put-on grumbles thereafter. It was fine, all fine. 

~Aenonny


	18. Non-AskBox Fic: BBC Sherlock - JM/SM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: [Lady-Karasu](http://lady-karasu.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  **Important Procedural Note:** First, look at [This Tumblr Post's GIF](http://this-is-my-very-porny-blog.tumblr.com/post/35266976859/taggianto-p0rnstarswholooklikebbcsherlock). Then, read this fic.

Sebastian Moran entered the refitted hunting lodge with duffel-bag and rifle-case over one shoulder, handgun in his free hand. The perimeter had been secure, as was the gate at the bottom of the little hill upon which the lodge had been built. Instead of coming in the front door, however, Seb entered from the back, coming around from the garage.

The reason Seb was stealthily sneaking into what was, to all appearances, a secured location, was that Jim hadn’t answered his phone in the last thirty-two minutes, which was highly unlike him. James Moriarty was borderline obsessive about staying in touch with the goings on of his organisation, as well as his right-hand man, favourite assassin, and lover. 

Once inside, finding nothing obviously out of place, Seb checked the few rooms on the ground floor—no one and nothing unusual to be found—then crept upstairs, expecting trouble, cat-footed and nearly silent.

In the outer room of the upstairs bedroom suite, Seb found Jim’s mobile next to the universal remote on the plush sofa, text and missed call notification icons showing on its screen; it had been set for vibrate. Even as he stood there, frowning down at it, the mobile buzzed softly, screen lighting up to show a received-text reminder. The reminder was for a text from Seb, himself, as a matter of fact. 

Hearing a soft sound of movement in the bedroom beyond an only slightly-ajar door, Seb moved toward it, half expecting to find Jim taking a perfectly innocent nap and half expecting to find him in danger; the one would lead to some grumbling from Seb about ‘security and practising what you bloody preach, Jim’ and the other would lead to someone being dead. 

What Seb didn’t expect to find was Jim sitting on his heels at the edge of their huge bed, just then pulling a ribbed cotton undershirt off while still wearing a too-large pair of camouflage fatigue trousers. In fact, Sebastian’s own fatigues, as was the undershirt, the camouflage fatigue jacket discarded on the far edge of the bed, and the ball-chain with dog-tags still dangling at the end that swung against Jim’s sternum as he turned with raised brows and wide brown eyes. 

It was exceedingly rare that Jim allowed himself to be surprised; he was usually the one who did the surprising, and rarely in a way that was very fun for the _surprisee_. But this time, Jim’s lips fell open slightly, teeth then coming together to almost form what Seb was certain might have been the beginning sibilant of his own name. With Jim’s upper body turned toward him, Seb could see the way the trousers rode low on his slim hips, making it fairly certain that Jim wore nothing underneath. 

Seb let the duffel and case slide to the floor, then flicked the safety catch on his gun to ‘on’ and tossed it onto the bed beyond Jim as he approached, saying nothing, looking him over thoroughly; whatever showed on Seb’s face, it brought the merest hint of colour to Jim’s face, made the pulse flutter at his neck, and caused his smooth chest to rise and fall with a sudden inhalation. 

Where words, meanings, double entendrés, clever witticisms, and subtle threats were Jim’s usual province, Seb wasn’t really the talkative sort—it wasn’t that he was stupid, on the contrary, he just wasn’t one for idle chit-chat—and to have startled Jim into silence was, indeed, a very rare thing. Seb didn’t ruin it, he let his face show his intention, and let his actions show his opinion on this unexpected discovery. Whether Jim was embarrassed at being caught or had planned this whole ‘scene’ was immaterial to Seb at that moment; he’d find out the truth later, or not.

As Seb stepped right up to the side of the bed, his hands fell to Jim’s hips, gripping handfuls of the loose trousers and using that to lift Jim up onto his knees, pulling him forward to the very edge of the mattress. Simultaneously, Jim’s hands came up to meet Seb, one on his left bicep, the other on his chest, not stopping him or pushing him away, just touching as he tilted his head back slightly to keep Seb’s gaze as the taller man moved in close. Jim’s lips quirked just a little, pulling to the side in something close to amusement and closer to arousal, but he still remained silent as Seb’s own lips took on a cockily-aroused tilt just before he brought them down on Jim’s. 

Seb didn’t dick around with soft buildup kisses or nibbles this time, he urged Jim’s lips open straight away, wanting in _now_ ; he met with absolutely no resistance, the response was eager as Jim made the tiniest hungry sound deep in his throat. Answering with a lower, just as hungry, sound of his own, Seb’s hands slid further around Jim, grabbing his arse and pulling him closer, still. It was obvious Jim was excited as their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, and in moments it was just as obvious Seb felt the same. 

The lack of discussion continued for a good long while, though there wasn’t any lack of communication, even if it was in the form of sighs, moans, growls, and maybe a couple of enthusiastic shouts at one point. 

Much later, Jim put on his own, usual clothing, but kept the dog-tags. Sebastian had no complaints, and his smug expression lingered for quite a while.

END

~Moose


End file.
